We Two, How Long We Were Fool'd
by forthegenuine
Summary: They circle around each other, until they realize they've already found freedom and joy. A discovery of home in two parts. Post-Mockingjay, pre-epilogue. Rated for a forthcoming chapter.


**Author's notes**: The notion of cyclical patterns and motifs in literature really tickles me. This story is inspired by that idea, and the fact that when Katniss broke the vase at the end of _Mockingjay_, no one bothered to clean it up… Now, I know the "growing back together" story has been written many times before. But I think of this more as a love letter to all the fanfic authors and readers I've met, followed, and befriended over the past couple of months. I love this fandom, and even more so, the wonderful people who populate it. Special thanks to Angylinni, who is my fabulous one-woman focus group on this one :)

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We have circled and circled till we have arrived home again, we two.  
We have voided all but freedom and all but our own joy.  
––Walt Whitman

**We Two, How Long We Were Fool'd**

"Part 1: Vernal Equinox"

The first time Greasy Sea doesn't come in the morning, Katniss is forced out of bed by soft yet determined knocking. She opens the front door, half-wearing and half-dragging her blanket around her like a ridiculously oversized cloak, and finds Peeta standing in front of her, alone. He holds out a covered wicker basket in one hand, while the other hand is balled up in one of his pockets. "Morning," he greets timidly, almost apologetically, as if he were afraid she might turn him away because Greasy Sae isn't with him.

Katniss steps aside, finally wide-awake and suddenly aware of how absurd she must look, as Peeta enters and heads straight for the kitchen. She runs upstairs quickly to shed her blanket and splash water on her face, before joining Peeta at the table. Without Sae's absent prattling, they eat breakfast in relative silence. Peeta attempts to make conversation by commenting on the pleasant spring they're having. Katniss mourns the fact that they've resorted to small talk, pushing her food around her plate. She agrees with him anyway, although she has not left her house in the last two days. There've been bad days.

While the exchange isn't dreadfully awkward, it doesn't feel natural to Katniss either, and she is relieved when Peeta finishes his breakfast first. She watches as he rises, feeds Buttercup his scraps (a habit he picked up from her, so now the damn cat prefers him over her), then washes his plate. For a moment, he pauses by the sink, and looks like he is on the verge of saying _something_ to her. He always purses his lips then sucks in a deep breath before he says something longwinded. Instead, his lips form a smile and he thanks her for breakfast––even though he brought the loaf of bread and meager dollop of butter they just shared––then takes his leave. Katniss is left, feeling as though the boy who just left is a stranger in Peeta's scarred skin… but then, she thinks, maybe _she_ is the one wearing borrowed skin.

She dumps her unfinished plate in the sink and stalks off to find Sae, and demand a return to a routine she didn't realize she relied on in just this short amount of time. It doesn't take her long to find Greasy Sae, who has sequestered herself to her old spot about where the Hob used to be, a makeshift stall no doubt built by Thom for her and her granddaughter. Greasy Sae looks different without a boiling pot of wild dog in front of her, but she keeps herself occupied with knitting while she watches the young girl play at her feet.

"You weren't there this morning," Katniss blurts without greeting, only slightly caring afterwards––but not enough to want to take it back—if she sounded accusatory.

"I know I wasn't. I figure from here on out, th' two of you can take care of yourselves," Sae explains, without looking up from her task. "And each other," she adds pointedly.

Katniss is not quite sure of what to make of her refusal. At the very least, she expected to earn Sae's pity for the state she's in. But she can't say that out loud, so stands there a bit longer, wordlessly obstinate, watching as Sae's granddaughter plays with the ball of yarn Katniss vaguely recognizes as the one she gave away. "Besides," continues Greasy Sae, interrupting her daze, "I can only do so much––making sure you're fed, bathed, getting some sunlight now and then. It's you that's got to find a reason for wanting to be here."

Katniss frowns at the older woman, confused and unsatisfied. When Sae makes no attempt to continue, Katniss turns on her heels and stalks back to her house in Victor's Village. She resigns to declare this trip out-of-doors a failure. And, feeling petty, she certainly doesn't feel like venturing a trip to the woods today to fetch Sae any game. She spends the rest of the day under the covers of her bed, hovering between sulking and dozing, until she is awakened by the pangs of hunger around dinnertime.

As if by force of thought, she hears the clatter of kitchen sounds and guesses that Greasy Sae has changed her mind about coming back after all. In her haste to savor both her triumph over Sae's will and her cooking, she neglects to put on socks and shoes.

When she reaches the threshold of the kitchen, she is taken aback when she sees Peeta there instead. She is not so much surprised by his presence as she is perplexed, and admittedly a little envious, of his comfort at presiding over her space as if it were his own. The afternoon sun, its warm rays streaming in from the window at his back, lights the kitchen with a gentle glow. Katniss is briefly awed at the sight of this golden Peeta, and thinks she must really be hungry. "Hi."

Peeta looks up from his preparations, knife in hand, mid-slice. He sets the utensil down, and wipes his hands on the apron tied around his waist. "Hey," he smiles bashfully and explains, "Sae gave me her key, so I let myself in. Are you hungry?"

Katniss is astonished a second time, this time, by Peeta's kindness. He's always been kind, this boy, but even after his hijacking, he finds a way to return to himself. First with the primroses he planted, then the offerings of bread for breakfast. Now this. But what has _she_ given him?

She swallows her guilt as she does her saliva, to try to stave off the gnawing hunger. She nods in affirmative to his question, even as she feels she has no right to accept any more of his unfailing generosity. And as only Peeta could, he grins at her boyishly, nods slightly, and returns to chopping vegetables.

Katniss slinks barefoot along the kitchen wall, trying to be unimposing, even though it is her house. She glances at Peeta as he works, admiring that familiar look of concentration sitting on his brow. She is so distracted, she doesn't notice that she steps on the rug near the fireplace. A quick splinter of pain suddenly pierces her foot and shoots up her leg. She cries out, dropping to the ground to clutch at her injury.

Peeta looks up and flies immediately to her side. "Katniss! Are you all right?" He crouches down next to her on the kitchen floor.

When they inspect the wound, they discover an angry piece of glass that was camouflaged among the mottled pattern of the rug, is now lodged a few centimeters deep in the arch of Katniss's foot. Drops of crimson pearl where glass meets flesh. Managing to control her sobs, Katniss conjectures that she must have missed this one piece, when she carelessly cleaned the broken pieces of the vase she had shattered.

"I should go get Haymitch," Peeta suggests, a look of concern replaces the earlier concentration on his face.

She shakes her head. "No. He's probably––" she is inclined to say that he is likely drunk out of his mind right now, since she hasn't seen him for a few days, but opts instead for, "busy."

Peeta doesn't argue. "Okay, then, up you go." He takes her arm and places it over his strong shoulders, circling his around her back to support her at her waist. With his other arm, he scoops the backs of her knees, lifting her effortlessly, and carries her to the table then carefully lowers her to a chair. She barely has time to register that this is the first time he's touched her since, well, since she bit him. She forgets this as soon as he sits across from her, resting her heel on his knee as he assesses the wound.

Katniss is glad for Peeta's calm because she can no longer control the way her body is shaking. While the pain is not unbearable, she cannot suffer the stabbing sensation and the discomfort of having an object embedded in her foot for very long. "Could… could _you_ help me get it out?" She forces herself to squeak out. She doesn't want to owe him any more, but she figures she'll just add this to the ever-growing list of things she needs to pay back.

"Yeah," he begins gravely, "but I don't know if I'm the best person to ask." He looks at her with the smallest hint of a curve at the corner of his mouth, eyebrows disappearing easily into the mass of too-long blond curls that have grown into his forehead. "I don't exactly have the best track record when it comes to injuries sustained below the waist."

His attempt to distract her is so plainly obvious, and despite knowing exactly what he's doing, she feels the sides of her lips tug upward anyway. His hand crosses between them and reassuringly wipes away tears that have fallen on her cheek with his thumb. Katniss can't help but wonder if she imagined that when his fingers brushed her face, they lingered longer than necessary.

Peeta clears his throat, "Bandages and stuff, upstairs bathroom?" Katniss nods her head. "I'll be right back." When he returns with the first aid supplies and a towel a few moments later, he replaces her foot on his knee, gingerly cradling it. He mops off the blood that has seeped around the glass and the gash. She winces at the pricking sensation, and recoils reflexively. Peeta gives her an apologetic look, uttering a "Sorry," and proceeds with even more care.

"Ready?" He looks at her expectantly.

She nods her consent. Katniss squeezes her eyes shut and steels herself for the pain. "Here we go," says Peeta. "One, two, three––" a swift jerk, a sharp sting, followed by pressure on her foot. When she opens her eyes, releasing a breath she doesn't remember holding, she sees Peeta triumphantly grasping the shard between his fingers, his other hand keeping a towel pressed to her foot.

"You okay?" Peeta inquires, looking a little relieved himself.

Katniss smiles tearfully and nods. "Thanks."

Holding her gaze, he accepts warmly, "You're welcome." He sets to work dressing the wound while Katniss keeps her eyes on him, mostly because she is still squeamish about human infirmary, even if it is hers. With each passing moment, though, as Peeta cleans and applies ointment to the wound, she can feel her grip on her seat begin to loosen. She becomes aware of her pulse, throbbing everywhere he touches her flesh, and she doubts it is entirely because of her wound.

Peeta suddenly lifts her foot to his face, and for a brief and absurd––but not unwanted––moment she thinks he might kiss it, the way mothers kiss their children's injury. He blows on it instead, attempting, she sees, to dry the ointment. Katniss closes her eyes momentarily, relaxed by the cool feeling of his breath on her skin. Peeta replaces her foot on his knee again, and begins to unwind a strip of gauze from the roll. "I watched your mother do this for your other foot."

A simultaneous feeling of gratitude and guilt urge her to declare, "You missed your calling as a healer." He responds with a small chuckle and continues to work, looping layer after layer of gauze around her ankle, covering her foot's arch thickly. "I don't…" As much as she knows herself to be inarticulate, she realizes now that she is just as bad at saying the wrong words sometimes. "I don't know where to begin paying you back… for everything."

Peeta's hands stop moving and rest on her ankle, a barrier of gauze separating contact between their skin. He looks up and gazes into her eyes, furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head minutely in confusion. "It was never about paying me back, Katniss." And the words tumble from his mouth, dissipating too quickly into the air. "You know I did everything because I––"

His unformed words shoot into her chest and the infinitesimal abstraction of hope, that she'd thought she'd given up on just this morning, balloons into something real. It's her turn now to look at him, her eyes wide and turning misty for lack of blinking. Her breath slows while her heartbeat accelerates, as she succumbs to the impulse that she had been ignoring all afternoon––all week––if she admits it to herself. What she knows, though, is that the pain in her foot is now replaced by an ache to touch him. Her hand instinctively closes the space between them, sweeping an errant lock of blond hair from his eyes, the side of a finger skimming over the impossibly long eyelashes she'd long admired. A frivolous part of her is giddy at the accomplishment, and a conflicted part of her simply wants to touch more of him. But as with all triumphs lately, this too only lasts briefly, before doubt creeps in and she slowly realizes what she's done. Her body stiffens, her hand freezes.

Before she can withdraw her hand from such a bold gesture, he covers it with his own, pressing her entire palm flat against his face. She is aware of the prickle of stubble growing along his jawline, a contrast to the youthful softness of his cheek. Her thumb, so close to grazing the side of his mouth, can feel the breath escaping from his lips. Her heart races once again, and there are palpable intermittent somersaults under her ribcage.

When he leans into her touch, his eyes half-closed. It is all she can do to keep her own eyes from closing too, but she forces herself to keep them open, for fear that if she even blinks, this will all disappear. Her heart both yearns for more and is content with the warmth of his cheek under her palm, and the soothing caress of his thumb going back and forth on the back of her hand. Her mouth falls open involuntarily, letting out a soft breath that sounds like something between laughter and a sigh. She watches his body relax, limbs loosen, and breaths drawn deep. A drowsy haze seems to wrap itself around them, and for the first time since they've both returned, she doesn't feel the restless desire to be elsewhere. Katniss studies him for several moments, mesmerized by this image of Peeta in peace.

Gradually, she notices him inhaling a little deeper, taking in each breath a little quicker. His nostrils begin to flare noticeably, his breaths becoming more and more ragged. His eyes suddenly open to reveal that they are dilated, wiping out the blue in his irises. Without warning, he forcefully wretches her hand from his face at the same time he shoves her injured foot off its resting place on his thigh. The pain radiating from her foot in instantaneous, but she ignores it, looking at Peeta in shock and worry. He stands up brusquely, moving behind the chair he just rose from. His face is transformed, and he looks at her with angry black discs. He grits his teeth and spits out venom, "Don't touch me, you mutt!" Katniss can see his knuckles turning white, as he seizes the back of his chair. It rattles under his grasp, and for a moment, she thinks it might cleave in two under his strength.

Tears sting her eyes now, but only partly from the impact of her foot hitting the floor. "Peeta," she implores, half in attempt to coax him back to her. She fleetingly wonders how far she can run on her injured foot.

But before she can formulate an escape route, he squeezes his eyes shut, and takes several deep breaths, slower between each one this time, and more controlled. Eventually, his grip on the chair detaches, the fleshy color returns to his hands, as he releases one long breath. She doesn't ask what vision haunted him, but she has an inclination as to what triggered it and something gnaws at her, knowing it has to do with her.

Still trembling, Peeta opens his eyes, and wipes a few tears that have escaped. He sniffs loudly, wiping his nose as well, as he looks at her sadly with a mixture of apology and embarrassment. His eye flits quickly to her foot, but he seems to prevent himself from attending to it. A line creases his brows and his lips purse tightly together before he speaks. His face carries a pained look, one with an unmistakable tinge of longing. "No matter how much they made me hate you," he pronounces "… they couldn't make me stop _loving_ you." He turns away from her, but not before she sees his face contort in an attempt not to cry.

A breath catches in her lungs and an admission lodges itself in her throat as she watches him leave. But she remains still, not daring to move a muscle. She waits until she can no longer hear his footsteps in the house to let herself crumple into a sobbing heap, from a pain she feels deeper than the one from her foot.

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She finds him in the master bedroom of his own house sitting on the bed, inert, a few hours later. She can see him, or at least his back, facing the open window, illuminated by the light of a bright spring evening because although the sun had already set, night has yet to settle in.

As Katniss hobbles further into the room, a small wicker basket in hand, she hears him muttering to himself. She makes out a frustrated tone, and the word _idiot_. A part of her is afraid he is reliving more flashbacks, but she braves another attack. The other part of her is certain––although she isn't quite sure how––that he won't really do anything to hurt her. She deliberately makes her already clumsy footfalls noticeable and calls his name in a loud whisper, so as not to startle him. "Peeta?"

For a moment, Katniss thinks he doesn't hear her because he doesn't respond, not even to turn around. She waits another several moments until she feels her confidence fade slightly. Her instinct of flight about to kick in, Peeta suddenly speaks up. He keeps his back to her, but addresses her, his voice wistful and heavy with confession. "I was such an idiot to think that… I can make this place home again. That things can go back to way they were, after everything that's happened." He falters slightly. "And today, I almost––" the thought of what might have happened extinguishes his sentence. "I'm such an idiot," he concludes instead, deflated.

"No, _I_ was the idiot. I just sat there not saying anything, and let you think I agreed with you." She offers a small smile, even though she knows he can't see it. "You won't hurt me, Peeta," she says softly, but resolutely. Katniss finds the edge of the bed and sits next to him, placing the object in her hand behind her. She doesn't bring herself to look at him just yet, instead waiting patiently for him to speak again.

They sit in silence for a few more moments, until a sigh cuts through. "Just let me go, Katniss," he pleads with her tiredly.

She finally turns to him, just in time to see a tear roll down his cheek. Without hesitation, she catches it with her thumb. "I can't."

Though reason might tell her it is foolish to try so soon after his episode, Katniss feels her heart beat that familiar rhythm whenever Peeta is involved. She doesn't move her hand away from his face, instead, she guides it so that he is facing her. Peeta now looks at her, searching her eyes. Slowly, he lifts his hand until it covers hers. He dips his head, drowning his face in her tiny hand. Although she can no longer completely see his face, she feels him smile against her palm, and she smiles, too. Peeta turns his head unexpectedly, catching her hand with his lips, deepening her smile.

Their hands fall to the bed, his hand overlapping hers, and fingers reflexively intertwined.

As she studies his face, even in the relative darkness, she can see the look of sadness has not been completely driven away. "If you don't trust yourself..." his head snaps up, as if she had guessed his secret heart. "Trust _me_." She continues, "We protect each other, remember?"

"Even if it's from ourselves?"

"Yes," she vows simply. She remembers something he said earlier, and pours out a measure of hope he has lent her. "Maybe things won't go back to the way they used to be… but maybe other things can be better."

Peeta's eyes remain fixed on her, and he leans toward her at this. It is his turn to touch her face now, bringing it closer to his, until their foreheads are touching. He looks down, almost bowing, at their joined hands. He doesn't say anything, and seems entranced by the sight and a memory. He pulls back slightly, and immediately, Katniss misses contact with him. "I asked you once… not to let go of me, didn't I? Real or not real?"

She too recalls the memory of the two of them engulfed by flames. "Real," she assures him. "And I haven't."

A relieved smile spreads over his face, as he leans in again. He cups her cheek gently, his gaze sweeping across her face. "How's your foot?"

"Better," she breathes.

She closes her eyes in anticipation of what will happen next, her lips parting slightly. Suddenly, and embarrassingly, her stomach produces an unearthly growl, seeming to conspire against the moment. They each draw back, and not without an air of disappointment, they laugh. Katniss hides her face in his shoulder. His hand finds the back of her head, smoothing her hair from her crown to the nape. His lips brush her forehead, and an endeared chuckle escapes. "I guess I should get dinner started then?"

"Actually…" she sits up and twists her body. She proudly presents him with a basket brimming with diced vegetables, nearly forgotten, were it not for her insistent hunger. "I wasn't sure what recipe you had in mind, but I cut up all the vegetables."

Peeta beams at her and takes the basket from her hands. He stands, allowing his body to stretch briefly, then turns to offer his other hand to her. He helps her rise, and they climb down the stairs together, their joined hands never parting.

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_end part 1_


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